Private Ordinary

[Meya Liefi]

Tag: Lysander von Ascania​

Morning light spilled through the windows of one of the guest chambers within Lysander’s estate on Byss, falling in muted bands of gold. The room itself was immense, and everything within the estate seemed to reflect the man who owned it.

Meya sat before a mirror and, for now, wore only a dress. Everything about it had been made specifically for her.

Black silk draped along her frame in carefully tailored lines, fitted close at the waist before falling in layered folds lower against her legs, while split sleeves exposed her pale skin.

Several servants moved quietly around her. One stood behind the chair, working carefully through her dark hair section by section. Every strand was placed precisely before being pinned into place with ornate golden pieces shaped like branching thorns… for today.

Nearby, another servant knelt beside a table lined with jewelry atop black velvet cloth. Rings. Bracelets. Necklaces. Chains. Each piece was polished carefully, then inspected for even the slightest imperfection before being handed off to be placed on Meya.

Meya raised one hand without a word. Several rings were slid onto slender fingers one at a time, followed by delicate chains draped across the back of her hand and wrist. Another servant adjusted them afterward so the gold rested perfectly rather than twisting unevenly.

This was her routine every morning.

Hair arranged strand by strand. Makeup applied with exacting care. Jewelry polished before being fastened into place. Her dress had already been steamed and pressed hours earlier, though servants still adjusted how the fabric rested along her frame whenever another piece of jewelry was added, smoothing folds and repositioning sections until the silhouette appeared exactly as intended.

Her nails had been shaped and painted the previous evening. Regardless, one servant still inspected them closely before applying a final layer of dark polish to a single finger where the surface had dulled overnight.

Scents of perfume oils, heated styling tools, silk fabric, and incense lingered softly throughout the room. Meya remained still through all of it. Golden eyes rested on her reflection, though her thoughts were not on what she was seeing in front of her. They had already drifted elsewhere.

She planned to visit a historian today and…to work with Lysander on another project.

It sat poorly with her. Working beside another Sith went against everything she was trained for. Part of her still expected deception beneath every offer and courtesy extended toward her.

Time grew closer to when she and Lysander planned to depart, and yet she made no move to rise from the chair. She would not leave until every final detail had been completed.

 

[Lysander von Ascania]

Meya Liefi​

Lysander's eyes opened long before dawn's violet promise touched the horizon. In the shadows of his Byssian estate, obsidian corridors smelled of incense and lignum vitae, carrying notes of perfumed oils farther than his senses usually wandered at this hour. Byss was home, one of three, and the least complicated of them, which was perhaps why it remained home at all..

Today his thoughts drifted instead to Brentaal and the nearly sector of Tapani, pulling at him like a melody he barely remembered. The regimen ended before the hall lamps were lit.. it always did. A long run first, though the dark. Blade forms next, running through the katas of his preferred forms. By the end of it all, sweat dried cold against his throat. In his own opinion, there was no better way to start the day. There were also more pressing ones.. corporate obligations, political fractures across Coruscant and beyond that widened while he slept, alliances that required more maintenance than most people understood until they lost one.

The incident with the collector had nearly faded entirely.. he had not had time to look back at it, which was probably for the best.

When the final stretch left him still and centered, he moved on and dressed with care. A fitted tunic of midnight-black with a high collar, trousers of the same silk, boots polished. Over it he draped a tailored coat, fastened at the throat by a single clasp.

Now fully arrayed, Lysander crossed the great hall to the guest's chamber. The door stood ajar, carved ebony framing glimpses of flowing black silk and pale arms draped in golden chains. There, he paused in the threshold, slowly absorbing the hush.

"You are taking your time," came a nonchalant tone, one that was undeniably his. "We leave when you're ready."

He waited for a few seconds before adding in a softer tone. "I've arranged transport. The pilot's been waiting since before dawn. As have I." Perhaps the first lie spoken to her since becoming acquainted. A small one, so that meant it didn't really count. "Patience is a virtue. Fortunately, he has more of it than most."

His thoughts would continue spilling in the room.